


If I Can't Be Yours

by gimmefire



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-27
Updated: 2008-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:44:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmefire/pseuds/gimmefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were bound to run into each other eventually. Lewis had just hoped that it wouldn't have been on a day as shitty as this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Can't Be Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the first Barcelona test in 2008. Also contains implied Ron/Lewis and Ron/Fernando. I owe [deltachild](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachild) a pint for beta duties (maybe a half of Coke, I'm not made of money).

_Circuit de Catalunya, February 1st._

Fernando didn't see Lewis enter the hospitality room, busy as he was at the buffet table and with his back to the door. At first Lewis hesitated, thought about leaving and returning when the other man had gone. It hadn't been the best day, and he really didn't want to round it off by having to carve his way through the tension in the room just to get a damn sandwich.

The feeling passed quickly, replaced with a strong sense of indignation. Why the hell should he inconvenience himself? Telling himself to keep his head down, like he'd been doing most of the day thanks to the constant jeering and glimpses of accusatory banners around the track no doubt aimed at him. Despite the progress being made with the car, the whole day had left him wanting to kick something. And now he was just going to grit his teeth and walk away from a potential confrontation, anything for a quiet life? Fuck that. There was no PR to worry about here.

Lewis must've made some kind of noise at that point in his train of thought, because Fernando was now looking over his shoulder. The Spaniard looked Lewis up and down briefly, expression unreadable, and then returned his attention to what he was doing. Lewis was somewhat irked that he'd been noticed before he'd fully prepared himself – the words 'element of surprise' popped into his head for some strange reason. Had some part of him wanted to sneak up behind his estranged ex-teammate, cover his eyes and whisper 'guess who?' It was an absurd thought and an action that could likely have earned him a split lip, but even with that prospect in mind he still kind of wanted to do it - whether to just antagonise Fernando or get close to him again, he didn't know. Christ, he really didn't have the energy to think about this at the moment.

Shaking his head slightly, Lewis shook off the slouch he'd come in with and approached the table, clearing his throat by way of a greeting. Fernando didn't respond at all, merely setting his now full plate aside to pour himself some juice. Every so often Lewis's gaze would dart over to Fernando, what he was doing, his hands, his face; he had to suspect that the other man was doing the same thing. Something gnawed at the back of Lewis's brain to say something. Not out of desperation to break the thick silence, but to make a connection, any kind of connection with the man some ten months ago he could have called 'friend', without the obtrusive lens of a camera broadcasting their every move. Something _private_ , for once.

Had their relationship not soured so utterly, he quietly reminded himself, he may well have been able to call Fernando much more than a friend by now. Those heated looks at the beginning of the season hadn't been his imagination, he was sure of that.  
Steeling himself a little, Lewis collected a plate and absently began to fill it with food. Admittedly his mind really wasn't on the task, busy with thoughts of something suitably neutral to say.

"The food's nice here," he finally commented, affecting a relaxed attitude by taking a bite out of one of his sandwiches. His mouth felt a bit dry, so he followed the still unresponsive Fernando's example and poured a drink as he chewed his mouthful. "It's a good circuit."

Still nothing from the other man, though now Lewis could feel eyes on him. He turned and met Fernando's gaze for the first time in months.

"How's the car?"

"It's not a threat," Fernando replied tersely. He returned Lewis's gaze levelly, with the same controlled look he might give a prying journalist. Only occasionally had Lewis ever seen it directed at himself. This time, it irked him.

"No, I didn't mean—" Lewis began, mildly exasperated. "I was just trying to have a conversation, that's all. I'm not prying. Christ."

Perhaps it would have been better if he had just come back later. Lewis was only now realising that perhaps heading into a tense conversation with patience worn so thin wasn't really constructive. He sighed, shook his head and turned away. _Maybe another time_.

Then... "I would be a world champion for the third time, if it wasn't for you."

Lewis stopped in his tracks, Fernando's words snaking up his spine and slipping into his brain. _If it wasn't...?_ When he turned, incredulity written all over his face, Fernando merely pointed towards the door, to the circuit beyond. Pointed to the fans neither of them could see in the grandstands. "That's what they are saying."

There was a weighty pause as the two of them stared at each other, neither giving an inch. No doubt there was something simmering behind Fernando's unperturbed expression, something almost insidious there in his caramel eyes, but it would only flicker then fade. A little warning and nothing else.

The younger man wasn't intimidated. "And what do _you_ think?"

"Does it matter now?"

"Right, I bet you'd be out there being head cheerleader if you didn't think Flavio would smack you for it," Lewis snapped.

Fernando's eyes darkened, the detached air vanishing in an unnerving instant. "You know, I hear some of the other things they shout at you just as well as you can. If you are accusing me of something, I'd prefer it if you said it honestly."

Another heavy pause, broken by a sigh from Lewis, "No, I'm not." His voice grew quieter, "I'm not saying that at all."

He felt deflated. They'd scarcely said a few sentences to one another and it was already crystal clear, on both parts, that it wasn't working. The olive branch just wasn't so easily offered from either side, even now Lewis found himself unable to apologise for what he'd implied and instead was growling inwardly about why Fernando felt the need to bring up his supporters' opinion and leave his own so conveniently unsaid.

Suddenly his irritability gave way to a feeling of righteousness, and he walked right up to Fernando, ignoring the little voice that told him to leave it and walk away – to be the bigger man, like he'd tried his damndest to be all last season.

"You know what? I admired you. Last few years when I looked up to the top, right where I wanted to be one day, I saw you. I aimed for you." His voice dropped to a murmur, hoping somewhere in his heart that it would lend more weight to his next words. "I've had you in my sights for years. Then I find out I'm gonna be your teammate, and," he paused, exhaling slowly, "I thought I was set."

"You _were_ set," Fernando responded, voice etched with subtle irritation. He either didn't hear the inflection in Lewis's voice or he simply did not want to acknowledge it. "You _are_ set, in case you haven't noticed. I joined McLaren with the expectation of greatness, the expectation that we could create a legacy and do with them what Kimi and Juan could not. I thought that I would have a teammate who would support me all the time."

Lewis clenched his jaw. How the hell could he still not understand? "It might've said the number two on my car, but I wasn't there to just be chasing your coattails. I was there to win."

Fernando snuffed a humourless laugh, lips curving slightly into a sneer. "And didn't you." Lewis, utterly exasperated, was about to retort when Fernando pointed at him, with his voice slightly raised. "You won't understand how it feels until it happens to you, and I truly hope that it does. I hope that someday you feel how much it hurts." He paused, hackles appearing to smooth back down, "I may have been the champion going into the team, but you were his favourite boy."

" _Boy_?" Lewis's eyebrows shot up. "What d'you mean by that exactly?"

"You should be grateful that I didn't say 'pet'."

Anger flared in Lewis, and he was sure it was visible because Fernando's eyes narrowed minutely. In that one subtle change of expression, Lewis felt struck by the punch of what it meant.

_If you want to fuck with me, then fuck with me._

There was a challenge in that fleeting look, a simmering anger that had clearly been there for most of last season, only now there was no reason for Fernando to hide it. A stark, arrogant challenge glittered in his eyes. _Come and get me_ , he was hissing, _Because now there's no-one to stop you. There's nothing to hold you back._

"Prick," Lewis whispered, feeling his heart race. Fernando was too close, it made him nervous. He wouldn't be able to put up much of a defence if Fernando went for him. He wasn't sure if he _would_ put up a defence – and that notion startled him. Was he really that desperate for some kind of violent reaction from Fernando? Was he under the control of some visceral bite in him that wanted to push and push because he finally fucking _could_? The man before him might just fly at him, pin him by his wrists against the wall and hiss some violent Spanish curse into his ear...

Was he _really_ that desperate?

The angry spark in Lewis's eyes faded, and he sagged slightly. "I'm so tired of this," he mumbled, rubbing his forehead.

Fernando snorted. "This, what do you mean, this? You say that as if we've been on speaking terms."

"No, just," Lewis gestured hopelessly. " _This_ , I mean...d'you know what it's like to think about a conversation you might have, to go over how it might go, how you might respond to everything they might throw at you?" His gaze dropped to the floor and he continued quietly, "I'm sick of it."

The silence felt less tense this time around, less choking, and though it felt good to have at least a little more clarity between them. Lewis didn't quite know what to say now. It felt like he had admitted a weakness, and with their current animosity Fernando was the last person he'd choose to do that to, so he waited for a response. He didn't expect the one he got, though:

"Then stop caring."

The younger man raised his eyes to find a surprising amount of empathy in the ones looking back at him.

"Is that what you've done?"

"There is the expression, when there are two people on a date, a couple, and there is the third person tagging along," Fernando said, frowning slightly as he searched for the term. Once it came to him, his forehead smoothed and he looked resigned, continuing quietly. "The third wheel. It's hard for me to go on caring when that is the position I have been put in."

Lewis's shoulders slumped. "But we didn't... _I_ didn't," he spluttered slightly, staggered into incoherence that this was the belief that Fernando still held. "You-you put _yourself_ in that, you just closed off and—Christ, I couldn't even talk to you by the end of the season, you—"

Then he looked at Fernando, _really_ looked, and fell silent. The Spaniard's expression spoke volumes – it was that controlled look, that prying journalist look. The wall was back up. Lewis began to speak again, saw that it was fruitless, and sighed.

_Whatever I do, whatever I say, none of it's going to change his mind. This is what he believes, and there's nothing I can do about that. This is what he believes, and..._

Fernando turned back to the table, and the conversation appeared to be over.

Lewis felt his chest tighten. _This is how it's gonna be._

He watched Fernando pick up his plate and drink, turn and head for one of the couches, speaking before the other man could sit down. "We're not going to be able to start over, are we?"

Some of the hardness, the suspicion in Fernando's eyes had faded as he turned and looked at Lewis, who could have sworn he saw regret there. The Spaniard shrugged slightly. "No," he murmured more wistfully than he'd probably intended. "We are not."

Silence again, which made Lewis all the more painfully aware of the feeling of his heart sinking. He approached Fernando and, when he realised he could feel no aggressive vibes from his ex-teammate, raised a hand and let it settle on the other man's forearm. Tentatively he brushed his thumb back and forth over pale skin, then stilled. Though Fernando didn't snatch his arm away, Lewis couldn't quite bring himself to make eye contact at such close proximity, keeping his eyes fixed on his audacious hand instead. His heart was thundering.

"The third wheel thing, I..." and there Lewis stopped, unable to put his thoughts into words. He raised his eyes in trepidation, hoping for some kind of reprieve in Fernando's expression but receiving none; the other man remained impassive, seemingly unmoved by Lewis's hesitant words.

For a few quite wonderful moments, that was how they remained – the air between them devoid of snide comments, of hostility, of anything but stillness and silence. Again Lewis stroked at Fernando's arm, and when it was not pulled away, the younger man gave little thought to the possible consequences as he leaned in and pressed a swift kiss to the corner of Fernando's mouth.

Despite the significance of the brief touch, when Lewis pulled back almost holding his breath in anticipation, Fernando's expression hadn't changed at all.

_This is how it's gonna be._

And suddenly it felt like they were back in the middle of last year. The hope in Lewis's eyes was extinguished and he let go of Fernando's arm, turning abruptly and bumping the other man's shoulder with his own, hard enough for juice to splash from his glass.

"See you on the track," Lewis murmured, and headed quickly for the door. He breezed past a startled Giancarlo in the doorway, stopping on hearing the Italian's voice.

"What happened? Did I interrupt?"

Turning to find that Giancarlo was inside the room speaking to Fernando, Lewis listened intently. There was silence for a few moments, and he peeked back into the room.

"No, it's nothing," Fernando replied, setting his glass down on the table and calmly licking drops of spilled juice from his hand. "It's, uh, water under the bridge. Or at least where my bridges would be..." His eyes rose to give Lewis a contemptuous look as he gave his hand one last lick, "...if they hadn't been burned."

Despite himself, Lewis felt a pang of lust shoot through him at the display. The path of that tongue and the vibrancy of that glare... He growled under his breath, both at himself and at Fernando, and pulled away, heading back towards the pitlane.

_Bridges burned. He's not joking._

" _Prick_ ," he found himself whispering as he stalked back out under the grey Spanish sky, braced for a chorus of jeers. Something told him that it wouldn't be the last time he'd be saying it this year.


End file.
